Quiet Desperation
by Menthol Pixie
Summary: Most men lead lives of quiet desperation." An AU drabble featuring Sawyer and Charlie as part of the O6, minus Kate and Claire. Was a one shot but I've decided to continue it.
1. Chapter 1

**Quiet Desperation**

**A/N: OK, this is a heavy AU story, wherein Sawyer and Charlie are two of the Oceanic Six, and Kate (and Claire) are not. Just a one shot drabble basically, of an idea that came into my head one day.**

"_Most men lead lives of quiet desperation…" ~ Walt Whitman_

It works well, the two of them living together, because Sawyer doesn't care when Charlie shoots up heroin, and Charlie doesn't care when Sawyer drinks until he passes out.

Neither of them are quite sure how it happened, how the two of them drifted together like this, except that neither of them had anywhere else to go and both of them needed something solid from the Island to grasp onto, to remind them of what they left behind.

They're not friends exactly, but they have both lost something that they know they can never get back.

…………………………………………………………………………………..

They don't talk about it. When Sawyer comes home in the early hours of the morning, fumbling with his keys, and finds Charlie motionless on the couch with a tourniquet still around his arm and a needle dropped to the floor, he merely stumbles over to check his pulse and then shake him awake when he finds one. Sawyer doesn't know what he'll do when the day comes that he can't find a heartbeat.

Charlie stirs and opens his eyes to gaze blankly at Sawyer, as if he was expecting to see someone else.

Sawyer takes the tourniquet from his arm while Charlie watches vaguely, then takes the needle from the floor and puts it on the coffee table where he doesn't have to worry about stepping on it accidentally. It joins a mess of cigarette butts and crumpled beer cans. Neither of them spend much time cleaning up. It doesn't matter. They don't care.

"Geez kid," he growls softly, "Are you trying to kill yourself?"

But he turns away quickly and heads for the kitchen so that he doesn't have to hear the answer. He's afraid he already knows.

When Sawyer returns from the kitchen with a beer, Charlie's already sitting up, holding a lighter to the bottom of a teaspoon, melting the heroin into something he can inject.

Sawyer pauses briefly in the doorway, watching. It's a scene that he has grown used to, but, even drunk, he can feel how wrong this is, watching someone destroy themselves and going along for the ride. He wants to tell Charlie to lay off, have something to eat and then get some damned rest, but he knows that Charlie will just ignore him, and honestly, Charlie's better company when he's high. He talks more and even makes jokes occasionally, albeit sarcastic and bitter ones. Sawyer doesn't mind.

"Ain't you had enough already?" Sawyer slurs anyway as he collapses down on the couch and pops the cap off of his beer.

Charlie glances at him briefly before returning his gaze to his heroin. Sawyer can tell that he's trying to stop his hands from shaking. Charlie hardly ever looks anyone in the eye these days.

"Haven't you?' Charlie challenges, gesturing to the beer that Sawyer clings to like a lifeline.

Sawyer has no answer, and they settle down into silence as they both take their poison.

…………………………………………………………………………………………….

If Sawyer doesn't drink himself to sleep, he dreams about Kate, and when he wakes up, it's like starting all over again. Like this is his first morning in the real world without her and he has to grab another drink quickly before he starts to think about how he'll never see her again, how he just left her.

Sawyer suspects that it's the same for Charlie with Claire.

……………………………………………………………………………………………

They never speak their names. Even at his drunkest, the closest Sawyer has come is a slurred, "I miss her."

Charlie pulls his hood up over his head and stares down at the baggie of heroin on the table.

"I miss her too," he says quietly.

They both know that they are talking about different people, but it doesn't matter.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Sometimes Sawyer thinks about not going home. He thinks about drinking until he doesn't know where he is or how he got there. He thinks that maybe he should just get lost again, but then he remembers Charlie, and he knows that if he was ever to get lost, he would have to take him too.

So Sawyer goes home and drinks his was to unconsciousness, while Charlie mainstreams smack until his veins are threatening to collapse, and they both try to forget everything.

**End.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Quiet Desperation**

**A/N: Well, this was intended to be a one shot, but then I found that I liked the idea of Charlie and Sawyer living together 'for some odd kind of comfort' so much that I started thinking maybe I could carry on. I have one more chapter after this, but I must warn you, this isn't a happy story and most likely, wont have a happy ending.**

**Oh, and there's one swear word in this chapter. Also, my spell check isn't working, so, although I have tried my best to weed out all the spelling errors, I may have let some slip through. If so, please tell me and I'll correct it.**

Part Two

Charlie's throwing up in the bathroom when Sawyer arrives home, which is his first clue that Charlie's on another one of his getting clean kicks.

Every couple of months, Charlie stops cold turkey. Sawyer used to wonder why he bothered, seeing as he only ever lasts a few days, but it didn't take long for him to figure out that Charlie wasn't actually trying to quit. He'd just found a new way to torture himself, to punish himself for leaving _her_ behind.

Charlie once told Sawyer that quitting is dangerous. It can make your body go into shock and then everything shuts down. Charlie also told him that quitting really does feel like dying, and Sawyer figures that Charlie would know.

So Sawyer's not surprised when Charlie stumbles out of the bathroom, pale and shaking, eyes bloodshot, glistening with a feverish film of sweat, looking as though he's suffering from some kind of terminal illness.

"Giving up, huh?" Sawyer asks vaguely, popping the cap off of a beer.

"Shut up," Charlie mumbles as he collapses down on the couch, curling his knees up to rest his head on.

Sawyer shuts up.

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Sawyer wakes up with a girl in his bed and he can't remember her name. She looks like Kate though. Not as much as the last girl, but her hair is almost the exact same shade, and, with her face turned away from him like it is, he can imagine. Only for a moment though, before he remembers how dangerous this kind of thinking can be.

Sawyer gets up, feeling the vague thumping of a hangover, and goes to search for another drink. He doesn't look at the girl when she leaves.

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Days go by and Charlie's back on the heroin. Good. Sawyer's sick of the bathroom stinking of vomit.

Charlie plays his guitar for hours without ever playing a full song. He doesn't write down lyrics or chords, he just lets his fingers move over the strings and loses himself in whatever music comes out. Sometimes he plays songs that Sawyer recognises, other times Sawyer figures it's songs that Charlie's written himself. Once Charlie played Strawberry Fields Forever over and over for almost an hour until Sawyer told him to shut it.

Every now and then, Sawyer has to remind Charlie to eat something or have a shower. Sometimes Sawyer thinks living with Charlie is like living with a child, but then there are the nights when Charlie drags Sawyer up the stairs and puts him to bed so that he doesn't stay passed out on the sidewalk, or, on the odd occasion that Charlie actually leaves the appartment and accompanies Sawyer to a bar, talks his way out of fights that Sawyer picks with men twice his size.

The two of them are in this together. They look after each other, because neither of them is looking after themselves.

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Sawyer and Charlie watch informercials all night, the only light coming from the flickering television set.

Sometimes Charlie rings up and orders things that they both know they'll never use. Normally Sawyer lets him because who gives a damn anyway? But tonight Sawyer stops him from ordering the set of knives that can cut through tin, and then changes the channel.

"What d'you need them for anyway?" Sawyer asks.

Charlie just shrugs.

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Hurley visits but it's stilted and awkward. He doesn't know what to say, how to talk to these people who were once his friends, how to reach through the layers of heroin and glaze of alcohol.

Sawyer watches him pause in the doorway upon entering, gazing uncertainly around the trashed apartment before setting his eyes on Charlie. Sawyer knows that Hurley's scared because he can see his own fear in Hurley's eyes. They both think that Charlie's going to die, but neither of them knows what to do.

When the silence reaches breaking point, Hurley extends his hand as if to touch Charlie's arm as a way of comfort, but recoils at the mess of track marks.

Hurley bites his lip.

"Claire wouldn't want this," he says softly, pleadingly.

Suddenly the room is frozen, as if the air has become solid ice, as if Hurley has broken a spell. He said the magic word that both Sawyer and Charlie have vowed never to say. Even Hurley notices the change and has time to back up before Charlie explodes.

The coffee table flies halfway across the room, spraying cigarette butts everywhere, and Charlie's screaming and ranting in unintelligible words, throwing empty bottles at the walls, at Hurley, until Sawyer tackles him and they both crash to the floor with a crunch of broken glass, then Charlie's sobbing and throwing punches, fighting to get away, while Sawyer struggles to pin his arms and hold him down.

"Damnit Hugo!" Sawyer yells over the ruckus, "Just fuck off!"

Hurley looks momentarily taken aback by Sawyer's harsh words, but his horror at Charlie's breakdown quickly overshadows it. He hesitates, obviously wanting to help.

"Just go," Sawyer growls, valiantly trying to keep his hold on Charlie, "I can handle it."

Hurley turns and flees, and Sawyer sits on the floor for another two hours, holding Charlie tight so that he can't hurt himself, until he calms down enough to take a hit and sink down on the couch in a drug-induced stupor.

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Hurley doesn't come back and Sawyer prefers it this way. He lets alcohol's tuneless lullabies sing him into a black trance, while Charlie mindlessly strums a D chord over and over. This is how Sawyer likes it. Just him and Charlie, living out their existance as if the rest of the world barely exists.


	3. Chapter 3

**Quiet Desperation**

**AN: This story in mainly being completed – finally – because of Andaere who gave me a kick in the butt to get it finished. Thanks! Hope you like the conclusion.**

Part Three

It's the day Sawyer has been dreading. He can't find a pulse.

For a moment, his mind goes blank. He's drunker than he has been in a while and Charlie doesn't have a pulse. How long was he out anyway? How long has Charlie been slumped on the couch, amongst the decay of their half-hearted attempt at normal life, going cold and blue, his head lolled forwards on his chest, too-long hair hiding his face in shadows?

Charlie doesn't have a pulse.

Sawyer doesn't remember calling an ambulance. He remembers yelling, shaking Charlie helplessly and probably too roughly. Shouldn't shake corpses, he thinks to himself as Charlie flops, boneless.

He knows that, by the time the paramedics arrive, Charlie's on the ground, amidst the rubbish, and he's trying to pound life back into him. He can't bring colour back to Charlie's face though, and he can't get Charlie to breath for himself. Kid must've used up his nine lives.

Charlie doesn't have a pulse.

When did he decide he liked the stupid little junkie anyway? He doesn't know, but he knows that he needs Charlie to breathe, because they're meant to be in this together, and, even if they're not exactly friends, there's no damn way that Charlie's allowed to bow out early.

It's a relief when Sawyer finds himself shoved aside, even if he curses and fights to get back to Charlie. He doesn't listen to the paramedics. They're not talking to him anyway. No one ever talks to him, apart from Charlie and Charlie doesn't have a pulse anymore. Maybe no one will ever talk to him again. Maybe that's just fucking fine.

Then he hears Charlie murmur Claire's name, breaking his own rule. Sawyer wonders if Claire's dead and now she's come to take Charlie away with her. He even looks around the room for her. He wants to tell her to go away.

The ambulance must be driving at twice the speed limit, sirens screeching, running red lights and dodging traffic. It makes Sawyer feel dizzy and nauseated, or maybe that's just the booze. He can't be sure. All he's sure of is that Charlie does have a pulse now, so the world's not ending. And he wants to kick himself for caring so much about the stupid kid. Sawyer doesn't care about anything. He doesn't care about getting trashed every day, all day, or bar fights, or passing out on the pavement. He doesn't care if he lives, maybe even hopes that he'll die, but apparently, he cares about Charlie.

Then they're at the hospital and, in a sickening blur of movement and yelling, Charlie's gone, rushed away through some doors, leaving Sawyer standing in his wake trying not to throw up. He doesn't remember making his way to the waiting area, just the relief in the knowledge that now he can at least sit down and try to get his head to stop spinning, try to stop thinking about anything except how much he needs a drink. Hospitals should have open bars.

But Sawyer doesn't sit or give himself time to think. He's at the pay phones and is listening to the ring before he's even realized what he's doing, and before he has time to consider hanging up, Jack answers.

"Sawyer, if this is another one of your drunken late night phone calls…"

Jack sounds weary, as if they've done this many times before. Funny, Sawyer can't remember ever ringing Jack.

"It's Charlie," Sawyer manages, and doesn't need to go any further. Apparently Jack knew that this day was coming too.

Sawyer knows that Jack doesn't think very highly of him, regardless of their common ground, having both left the same woman… but he calls him anyway, without thinking, because, on the Island, when there was an emergency, you called Jack. Well, everyone else did. Sawyer didn't, but he does now.

Sawyer knows that Jack holds him responsible for Charlie's downward spiral. A bad influence, and Sawyer has never bothered to clear up the confusion by explaining that Charlie was intent on destroying himself anyway. He'd been doing it long before Sawyer met him, long before the Island and Flight 815. Sawyer was simply going along for the ride. Misery loves company, right?

* * *

"Sawyer."

Sawyer snaps his head up, blinking. It takes him a moment to remember where he is, taking in the cold, sterile smell and harsh florescent lights.

Charlie. Charlie, who doesn't have a pulse because he shot himself full to bursting with a synthetic high, but he does have a pulse now and everything will be… _okay_ isn't the right word, but why the hell did he call Jack again?

Jack is standing over him, his face set in a grim mask. Something about his look makes Sawyer want to panic.

"How long have I been asleep?" Christ, he feels sick. "Have you seen Charlie? Is he…?"

Sawyer trails off, not sure what he wants to ask or whether he wants to know the answer.

Jack sits down next to him, but with two seats between them, Sawyer notices. Jackass. Sawyer looks at the time. Nearly five am. He's been asleep almost two hours.

"Charlie's doing okay," Jack says, running a tired hand over his face. "He's sleeping."

Sawyer feels relief wash through him. Of course Charlie's okay. He's got more than nine lives. Charlie will live forever, or at least until Sawyer dies. They're in this together. "He allowed visitors?"

Jack frowns, "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Why not?" Sawyer demands, anger puffing out his chest. Jack and his stupid idea's. Isn't that what got them off the Island anyway? Ripped them away from…

Isn't this all just Jack's fault? May as well be 'cause it's gotta be someone's.

Jack raises his eyebrows. "Sawyer…"

Sawyer hates the way Jack manages to make his name sound like a swear word.

"You think this is my fault now?" He's on his feet, hands balled into fists, but Jack raises a hand to stop him.

"This isn't about you," he says, "This is about Charlie."

"Charlie will be fine," Sawyer says defensively, "I can handle it. When he gets home-"

"Charlie's not coming home."

Sawyer blinks, a fraction of panic resurfacing. "What do you mean?"

"I called his brother. He said he'll be on the first plane out. He's going to take Charlie back to Australia, get him into a rehab center."

Sawyer sinks back into his seat, speechless, repeatedly curling his hands into fists as if clutching for something that is no longer there. He feels suddenly cold and alone. There's no alcohol left to coat reality in a comforting haze.

"Charlie wont go."

Jack just shakes his head. "You should go home."

He's been dismissed. He walks the empty hospital halls until he finds an exit, then catches a taxi back to his and Charlie's… to his apartment.

He stands in the doorway, surveying the jumbled chaos of his life. The floor is littered with empty bottles and cans, used needles. A baggie of heroin sits next to the overflowing ashtray. Charlie's hooded sweatshirt is strewn over the back of the couch.

Sawyer is used to being the one who leaves. He's never the one who is left.

Sawyer lingers in the doorway a moment longer, noticing for the first time how empty and lonely the apartment seems, how the walls seem to be painted with hopelessness, then he sighs and goes to the kitchen to get himself a drink, knowing that it will never fill the hole he feels inside of himself – nothing will – but at least it will help him forget about it for a few hours.

**End.**

**A/N: Well, hope that was satisfactory. My original draft of this story actually had Charlie dying at the end, but I changed it at the last minute. Just in case I ever want to continue, I didn't want to make that impossible. Thanks for reading and sorry for the incredibly long wait.**

**Um… *scuffs shoe in the dirt* You're gonna review, right? Pretty please? They really do brighten up my day. (And I've had some stressful days lately, even if you don't count the home invasion, during which a gun was pointed at me.)**


End file.
